


Someday We'll See the Sun Shine

by haraya



Series: Give Me Some Sunshine, Give Me Some Rain [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haraya/pseuds/haraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irving used to call her his little ball of sunshine, but as the shadows of the Blight and death and a storied past in the Tower continue to hound her at every turn, Solona's going to need a little help finding her silver linings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after [Boats and Birds and Little Girls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5359286), but it's not really necessary to read it before this one (I hope).

Of course, _of course_ , the first person she meets in Ostagar is a templar.   
  
Only he doesn't look like any templar she's known, and after thirteen years in the Tower, Solona's known a lot.   
  
He smiles, for one thing, which is already strange in itself, but--  
  
(Soft candlelight in a library and the barest tilt upwards of the right corner of his mouth--)  
  
(No, no. _Forget_.)  
  
\--But this templar _grins_ , as if he's genuinely delighted to see her.   
  
Her.   
  
A _mage_.   
  
Perhaps he was kicked out of the chantry for not being a proper templar? He's certainly not brooding and surly and smite-happy.   
  
(Neither was--)  
  
(No.)  
  
This templar is just... _happy_.   
  
Until he isn't, because the Tower of Ishal is crawling with darkspawn, and the army retreats, and somewhere in her newly-tainted blood she feels the other Wardens fall, one by one, like stars winking out in the coming dawn.   
  
"Ser--" but she catches herself because this isn't the Circle anymore. "Alistair," she says firmly.   
  
His name feels funny in her mouth, like it shouldn't be there, like it's taboo, and also one syllable too long and twice as many rolls of the tongue than there ought to be.   
  
This isn't the Circle.   
  
This isn't _him_ ; this is A-lis-tair.   
  
_"Alistair,"_ she says again more firmly, for both of their sakes. It succeeds in rousing him from his stupor, and he steps in front of her to take the brunt of the charging darkspawn, but of course it makes little difference.   
  
\---  
  
"You ask very strange questions," Alistair tells her as they trudge toward Lothering.   
  
She's been asking him anything and everything she can think off in the past few days, things along the lines of, _is the sky supposed to be this red_ (yes, it's twilight, and also possibly the end of the world; it's for dramatic effect, you know) and _how do we cross the stream_ (it's frozen, we can just walk over it) _or skate_ (yes, or skate, why do you look so excited) and _why aren't the birds singing, Alistair_ (huh, I don't really-- Darkspawn, look out!).  
  
It's not like there's anyone else to ask.   
  
There's the apostate - sorry, _Morrigan_ , but she's... not exactly the chatty type.   
  
And then there's the dog, who is less chatty and more yappy, with a helping of slobbering licks on the side.   
  
And so the almost-templar - sorry, _Alistair_ , is the only one willing to answer her questions.   
  
"Tell me what counts as normal questions for other people and I'll try to improvise," she says, smiling slightly.   
  
"Oh, you know, things like, 'Are we going to die?', that's a 'probably,' by the way, in case you're wondering - and 'Why are you such an idiot, Alistair--"  
  
Solona laughs. "Morrigan asks that often enough already."  
  
"Well, sure, but don't _you_ wonder sometimes--"  
  
"Don't we all," Morrigan drawls from behind, all acid and impatience.   
  
"I _don't_ wonder, in fact," Solona says, grinning. "I don't think you're an idiot."  
  
Her open honesty seems to catch Alistair by surprise, because he cocks his head and stares at her as if _she's_ the idiot, but then he grins, sunny, before he says, "Oh, wow, this is a momentous first." He sniffs and pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. "Let it be known that on this day, I, Alistair--"  
  
"Made an utter fool of himself--" Morrigan cuts in.   
  
He ignores her. "Have successfully proven to a lady of questionable taste--"  
  
"An utter _lack_ of taste, if we're to be honest--"  
  
"That I can manage to _not_ be a complete moron."  
  
The sun is high in the sky, and Solona's not completely sure that her companions won't kill each other in their sleep, but still she laughs and laughs.   
  
She catches Alistair eyeing her and she smiles, her cheeks dimpling (she doesn't remember smiling this much or this often at the Circle; what's _happening_ to her?), and he grins back at her.   
  
Somewhere in the back of her mind, something clamors for her attention: mages and templars _don't--_  
  
She pushes that thought away.   
  
This isn't the Circle.   
  
\---  
  
Night catches up to them a few more miles south of Lothering.  While Morrigan cooks dinner (both she and Alistair are absolutely hopeless at it, they discover; they laugh about that too), she sits to one side with her fellow Warden, her mabari's head in her lap.   
  
"What do you think we should name the dog?" she asks.   
  
They've been calling him 'the dog' for the past few days. At least, Alistair and Morrigan have. Solona just whistles, high and trilling, and the warhound is putty in her hands.   
  
"'Tis a ferocious beast, bred for killing," Morrigan calls from the other side of the fire. "Perhaps something along the lines of "Deathbringer' or 'Bloodmaw'."  
  
Solona looks pensively at her mabari, who yaps happily at her. Alistair cringes.   
  
"Yes, but he doesn't look _anything_ like a killing machine," he retorts. "He just sits there slobbering until there's darkspawn to kill or you give him a bone."  
  
"Then perhaps we should name him 'Better Alistair' as he's just like you, only smarter--"  
  
Solona ignores their bickering and scratches the mabari behind the ear. "He's very brave," she comments. "And loyal." Her eyes are far away, lost in memories of other mages and other templars in what seems like another lifetime entirely. "And sweet..."  
  
"Sweet, huh?" Alistair says. "How about Sugarcuddles? Honey Boo-boo? No? How about we name him Licorice and we call him Lick for short, because he likes to lick his ba--"  
  
Morrigan looks at Alistair like he's something the mabari made on the carpet, but Solona hardly notices, looking in the general direction of west, past the horizon, as she mumbles two syllables softly to herself; a hard consonant start fading into a soft sigh.   
  
"What's that?" Alistair asks, and she blushes a bright red and looks down at the suddenly interesting dirt on her mabari's fur, and mercifully he does not push.   
  
_Stupid_. Perhaps she _is_ the idiot in the party.   
  
"Or we could name him Barkspawn, because you know, he barks and he kills darkspawn--"  
  
Morrigan gives a disgusted grunt, but Solona looks at him with the corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile. It's silly, but she thinks it's clever and it makes her laugh. She scratches the mabari's ears and says, gently but firmly, "Barkspawn." The mabari whines, and then glares at Alistair, but Solona lets up a short bubble of a laugh, genuinely delighted. "Barkspawn! Here, boy!"  
  
The mabari relents with a gusty sigh, pleased because his human is pleased, and he is Barkspawn from that day onwards.   
  
\---  
  
Lothering is small, but it's hardly uneventful.  
  
There are bandits on the bridge where they pick up a couple of dwarven merchants, and there's a tussle in the tavern where they pick up the chantry sister, and there's the Qunari in a cage that they free with a minimal amount of fuss.   
  
And that's only the people who end up tagging along.   
  
There's a templar who spots the mages a mile away, and the little boy looking for his mother, and once, a couple of raven-haired sisters, golden-eyed and grinning.  
  
The last makes Solona slow to almost a stop when they pass them in the street. She mumbles "Malcolm?" and that makes one of the girls - the older one, she supposes - turn and give a curious look.   
  
She resists the urge to run after them, because Alistair is watching her, in that uncanny way templars have of watching mages, so she shakes her head and moves ever onward.   
  
\---  
  
They're in camp when she hears Alistair tell Leliana, "I used to have a very large cat that ate pigeons--"  
  
(Messy blond curls above eyes like liquid gold. The templar purses his lips and imitates the sound of a pigeon exactly.)  
  
Solona turns to him, eyes wide, and says emphatically, "That's awful!"  
  
(The corner of his mouth twitches. "There were a lot of pigeons where I grew up.")  
  
"Hm?" Alistair hums, turning to her. "Well, yes, I suppose. He used to choke on the little bones all the time--"  
  
"But the poor pigeons!"   
  
He looks at her blankly. "Yes, well, that's what cats _do_. Eat birds. Like pigeons and canaries and--"  
  
She cries out as she puts her hand over her ears. "Not listening, Alistair!"   
  
She marches over to where Barkspawn is pawing at the ground and plops down next to him. The mabari snuffles at her face and she buries her fingers into his fur.   
  
(The rustle of robes; the soft clank of armor; the smell of old books; candlelight glinting off the Sword of Mercy on a templar's chest. "Honnleath." He smiles.)  
  
(Croo.)  
  
She hears the clank of Alistair's armor as he settles down beside her some moments later.   
  
"Alright," he says. "What's this about?"  
  
"Pigeons," she says, nose still buried in her mabari's fur. "And evil cats, and evil, evil boys who keep the evil cats--"  
  
He laughs. "Yes. That was _exactly_ my plan all along. Evil cats. Who needs an army when you could have _evil cats?_ " He laughs manically.   
  
"Evil cats who eat poor, helpless pigeons," she mumbles sullenly. Alistair quiets, looking at her curiously.   
  
"They do... _do_ that, you know. Eat birds."  
  
She glares at him.   
  
"I'm just saying it's the honest-to-goodness truth. Cats eat pigeons, Wardens kill darkspawn, mages and templars don't--"  
  
"They do."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
They look at one another, both a little surprised, until she says, slowly, "They do. Mages and templars."  
  
And Alistair looks at her strangely before he says, "You know, I don't even know what's supposed to come after the 'don't' but--"  
  
"They do," she says firmly. "Do whatever. They _could_." And she looks him straight in the eye as she says, "Couldn't they?"  
  
Alistair looks at her, a little dumbstruck, before color rises in his cheeks and he stutters helplessly. "I-- um-- that's--"  
  
She doesn't know what comes over her, only that whatever it is feels right, and she grasps Alistair's hand gently. "Couldn't they?" she asks softly.  
  
There's a long moment when all the world is still, as if all creation was waiting with baited breath, before Alistair squeezes her fingers and the world _shifts_ , realigning to make room for new truths and new feelings.   
  
"If you say so."  
  
\---  
  
There are werewolves in the forest.   
  
She doesn't know what she expected but it's certainly not this - monsters of legend come alive and angry.   
  
And the worst part is that it was all done with magic. Somewhere in the back of her mind she's always had this awareness that magic wasn't a mere plaything - she'd been shocked and burned enough to know that it could cause pain. And yet, she'd never considered it _dangerous_ , never understood why the templars kept such a tight leash on them.   
  
Now she knows.   
  
For the first time in her life Solona feels genuinely ashamed of being a mage, of having magic, of being an abomination waiting to happen.   
  
It surprises her when Alistair, of all people, disabuses her of this notion.   
  
She is sitting quiet and pensive away from rest of the party around the campfire when Alistair seeks her out, plopping down beside her with his eyebrows scrunched together in concern. He snorts when she finally admits what's been bothering her.   
  
"Having a weapon doesn't make you a monster," he says. "It's what you do with it that does."  
  
"Is that all this is, then?" she asks, sparks of electricity ghosting over her fingertips. "A weapon?"  
  
"No," Alistair says firmly as he carefully dispels the sparks. The feeling makes Solona's gut twist, remembering the first time she felt a templar's smite, but back at the Circle the templar certainly hadn't gently grasped her fingers afterwards. Alistair squeezes her hand. "It's a gift."  
  
She looks into his eyes, open and honest in the flickering light. He's so kind, so earnest it almost hurts. She has to look away.   
  
"Some gift," she mutters. "Ability to strike lightning at fools, plus have demons hound you every night. It's wonderful."  
  
Alistair brushes his fingers over her knuckles. "Only valuable things are worth stealing."  
  
"Is it worth becoming a monster for?" she spits out.   
  
To her surprise, Alistair tips her face up to look at him and cups her cheek gently. The callouses on his fingers scratch her cheek - a warrior's hand on soft, sheltered skin, and she finds it not entirely unpleasant. "You won't become a monster," he says softly.   
  
"Why? Because the templars - because _you_ will cut me down before that happens?"  
  
Shock flits across Alistair's face, and for a moment he's too stunned to reply. But then he schools his expression and says, "Because you're better than that."  
  
"But how do you _know?"_  
  
Instead of responding Alistair trudges over to his pack and rummages around before returning to her side.   
  
It's a rose.   
  
It's for _her_.   
  
She's never gotten flowers before.   
  
(A paper lily on her pillow the morning after her Harrowing--)  
  
( _Real flowers_. Inwardly she grits her teeth.)  
  
And Alistair's speech is all fumbly and nervous but so, _so_ sweet, and when she pricks a finger on a thorn she looks at the rose and it's _still_ beautiful, and she thinks she understands.   
  
\---  
  
There's a detour to Denerim in the north, and it's a field day for the girls. Leliana drags the two mages around the marketplace, and after a while they even begin to enjoy themselves, with Solona flitting from stall to stall and asking question after question, and Morrigan fingering a few trinkets on display.   
  
They return to camp happy and giggling (except for Morrigan, but even she is smiling slightly), with little girlish baubles around their necks or wrists or hair.   
  
Sten questions the necessity of frivolities, because there's a Blight on, but that's just _it_ , because there's a Blight on and you take what happiness you can get.   
  
And so Solona has a yellow ribbon twined in her hair, and it's such a simple, small thing but it makes her ridiculously happy, because she's never had these things at the Tower; ribbons, and days outside in the sun, and shopping.   
  
And family.   
  
Alistair takes her aside and nervously tells her about his mother, and his sister, and maybe, since they're in the area and all and they don't need to leave _quite_ so soon, they could maybe -just maybe, mind!- visit her?  
  
And of course Solona says yes, so they do.   
  
It's the one thing that dampens the mood. It takes every ounce of Solona's Circle-trained self-control not to call down lightning on the shrew when she throws them out of her house.   
  
As they walk back to camp, Solona is at a loss because Alistair -sweet, funny, happy Alistair- looks so sad and dejected, and she has to wrestle with her self-control all over again so as not to run back to Denerim and rain down fire on Goldanna's house.   
  
They're silent all the way back to camp. Alistair stays quiet all throughout dinner, pushing around the chunks of meat in his stew. When everyone's left to bunk down for the night, he still sits by the dying fire and Solona can't take it anymore. She sits down beside him and leans her head on his shoulder, and his arm comes up automatically around her.   
  
It's easy as breathing.   
  
"You don't need her," she whispers fiercely. "You're too good for her."  
  
He smiles sadly. "No one's too good for family."  
  
She takes his free hand in both of hers, easy as anything. " _We_ could be family."  
  
She doesn't quite know why, but Alistair jumps in his seat, and when she looks up at his face she thinks his cheeks look ruddy in the dim light.  
  
"Like... siblings?" he asks hesitantly.   
  
And Solona takes a moment to listen to the beat of her heart, before she says, with conviction, "No. Not siblings." A pause. "Just family."  
  
Alistair glances at her shyly out of the corner of his eye. "Just you and me?"  
  
"And Barkspawn," she says seriously.   
  
That gets a chuckle out of him, and she feels his gloominess slipping from his shoulders like a discarded cloak.   
  
"So?" she needles. "Family?"  
  
Alistair smiles into the dying fire and squeezes her shoulders. "Maybe someday," he says, a little wistful.   
  
\---  
  
Someday seems like a very long way away when every day is full of darkspawn and danger and death.   
  
There's an assassin that ambushes them on the road to Redcliffe. She's half a mind to just kill him then and there, but a familiar voice whispers in her mind, _Having a weapon doesn't make you a monster._ _  
_  
And then a very real, very similar voice shouts in her ear, "He just tried to kill us!"  
  
Well, yes, that... _does_ shred his case, doesn't it?  
  
But Sten's a murderer too, and he's been very helpful with the darkspawn and the werewolves and the bandits that seem to spring out of nowhere.   
  
And she's pretty sure Leliana's not as innocent as she seems, if only because Chantry sisters shouldn't know how to wield a bow like that, and there's no doubt as to Morrigan's... leanings. Anyway, she's not going to turn away help when it falls out of the Maker-blessed sky.   
  
Or jumps out of a bush, to be more accurate, but that's not the point.   
  
So the assassin joins them as they trudge on towards Redcliffe. Zevran has sharp ears and sharp knives and even sharper eyes, and even his grin is sharp when he spies her and Alistair walking close together at the front of the party.   
  
She pointedly ignores him until they reach Redcliffe, and then she has other things to worry about, because of course, _of course_ Alistair has some complicated backstory too.   
  
Someday seems like a very, _very_ long way off when there's an empty throne in the way.   
  
\---  
  
Death hangs thick and heavy in the air. The arl is failing and undead are rising and it's all _too much._ Solona wants to cry. The people of Redcliffe look to her like she's a hero, like she'll save them all, and she doesn't know _how_.   
  
She wants to cry, because yes, they've driven back the undead for one more night but what does she know of battle? She was never meant to leave the Tower. She was never meant for _this_.   
  
But Alistair's hands are on her shoulders, steadying her even as he himself looks ready to collapse from exhaustion.   
  
"Hey," he says, giving her a tired smile. "We're okay. We can do this. Stay with me, Solona."  
  
_Yes, yes,_ she thinks, but it's an answer to a different question, a different context. So she only nods, downs a lyrium potion, and keeps walking towards that elusive someday.   
  
But first, there's today, and today is undead and dying and death.   
  
And ghosts, apparently.   
  
Solona freezes in the dim hallway, because there's a specter she thought she'd never see again.   
  
But no, if it's a ghost, it's just as surprised to see her. "Solona?"  
  
"Jowan."  
  
Anger rises up in her, hot and sharp, cutting at her lungs and throat.   
  
_How dare you, how dare you--_  
  
(He slips his cookie from his plate to hers and smiles; "So you're the new kid?")  
  
_How dare you--!_  
  
(His worried face is the first thing she sees when she wakes from her Harrowing.)  
  
_How. Dare. You!_  
  
"Just go," she says, unlocking the cell door. She doesn't even stay to hear his excuses, or his thanks, or his farewell; it's months too late for any of them.   
  
\---  
  
Solona doesn't remember being quite this scared when Malcolm first brought her to the Tower.   
  
She shudders as Kester rows them across the lake. It was her home for thirteen years but now it seems as foreboding as any dark, damp cave they've had to crawl through recently.   
  
And it's all _wrong_ \-- there's something off that she can't quite put her finger on. Home shouldn't be like this.   
  
(Home is a crackling fire and Leliana's stew and warm hazel eyes looking at her from across camp--)  
  
(Wait, _no_ , home is -was?- round stone corridors and Irving's tea and a templar's soft croo.)  
  
She shakes her head. Whatever home is, it isn't _this_.   
  
When she steps through the great doors of the Tower she wants to step right back out.   
  
The Veil is torn; she can feel _things_ slipping through as if it was mere water. All around she can hear the clank-clank-clank of armor as the templars hurry to barricade the door. Greagoir's words seem like they're coming out of a dream: demons and blood mages and Annulment, and that last word drowns out all other noise.   
  
Annulment. Annulment. Annulment.   
  
It leaves a numbing feeling in her mouth.   
  
_Annulment_.   
  
Irving and Wynne and Finn and Sweeney and Leorah and, and--  
  
_Cullen's not here._  
  
Wordless panic claws its way up her throat. It isn’t supposed to be like this. The mages are supposed to help _them_ ; Irving might've even smiled and offered her tea and maybe he might've even forgiven her enough to say, _Welcome home, Sunshine._  
  
(Irving smiles. His patient hands cover her own, drawing from her mana as he teaches her to summon lightning.)  
  
("You're doing great, Sunshine.")  
  
The memory seems to shock something to life inside her, and for the first time in her life she marches up to a templar without any hint of fear and demands they let her in.   
  
\---  
  
She almost cries with relief when she sees Wynne holding the barrier.   
  
There are a few others with her ( _so very, very few_ , she thinks sadly); Petra and some of the younger apprentices, and the little boy and girl she'd read out loud to that day in the library when Cullen came to help her carry them to bed.   
  
There's no time to dally, of course. She leaves Barkspawn to guard the apprentices, ignoring his whining, hands a few poultices over to Wynne, and then they're on their way.   
  
There are demons jumping out at them from around every curve in the hallway, behind every bookshelf. She barely even pauses to search the bodies of fallen mages and templars for anything useful, too afraid to find a too-familiar face.   
  
And then the Sloth demon appears, and when it pulls them under, there's one blessed moment of sweet oblivion before she wakes into a nightmare.   
  
\---  
  
Duncan is there, and he's saying it's all right, it's over, and she wants to cry in relief.   
  
She wants to take Duncan by the hands and dance in a fumbling circle, but something gives her pause. She doesn't remember how they got to Weisshaupt.   
  
Or how they beat the Archdemon. Or... anything, really.   
  
She wants to ask but something stays the words in her throat. Instead she asks, lightly, "Where's Alistair?"  
  
'Duncan's' eyes narrow the slightest bit, and panic rises in her chest, the force of it knocking the breath out of her lungs.   
  
"Where's Alistair?" she asks again, voice high with worry.   
  
A snarl, a battle - _she needs to ask Alistair to teach her to fight in close quarters_ \- and then the demon is kneeling at her feet, her hand gripping his neck.   
  
_"Where's Alistair?"_ she snarls. The demon only laughs, and she doesn't bother to look away as she summons lightning in the hand she's holding him with.   
  
When the demon is dead she slumps to her knees as the sugar-sweet trappings of the nightmare unravel around her.   
  
"Alistair! Alistair!"  
  
She scrubs her throat raw with the syllables of his name as the landscape of the Fade takes form around her.   
  
_"Alistair!"_  
  
\---  
  
She emerges from the Fade with a pounding headache, and she fumbles around for her staff with her eyes still closed.   
  
(The demon smiles. Panic rising. "Where's Alistair?")  
  
"Alistair!" she shouts, her eyes fluttering open.   
  
There's a weak cough somewhere on her left.   
  
"Could really use some coffee first," Alistair says lightly.   
  
Solona glares at him as she sits up, because this is probably the _least_ appropriate time for a joke, but she's also inwardly relieved. Still, the Tower is falling, and it's no time to joke around. But to her -and everyone's- surprise, _Wynne_ of all people continues to jest.   
  
"Just wait until Irving breaks out his tea set," she says. "His peppermint brew is to die for."   
  
"Ooh," Zevran pipes up. "Does he serve little iced biscuits as well?"  
  
Finally Solona sighs, one corner of her mouth tilting up in amusement, and she says, "Only if the demons haven't gotten to his secret stash."  
  
They have, unfortunately.   
  
The stash, and, well, everything else, really.   
  
Including people.   
  
They burst through the door, and Alistair runs straight into Solona's back because she stops abruptly as she whispers, horrified, "Cullen?"  
  
He looks up, older and more tired than she's ever seen him, and says only, "Maker, not again."  
  
They argue, feelings welling up and breaking their carefully constructed dams until both their throats are raw. And then Alistair pulls her roughly behind him, because Cullen is screaming _Kill all the mages_ , and her heart clenches like he's already struck the killing blow.   
  
How far they've come, from mage and templar to maybe friends and almost something more, and now they've come full circle.   
  
It surprises her when Alistair speaks, his voice all cold steel. "No."  
  
She looks at him but he doesn't meet her gaze, his jaw clenched and his fingers tight around the hilt of his sword, ready to strike.   
  
_To protect._  
  
She presses her fingers into the crook of his elbow, and he relaxes the tiniest bit.   
  
"No," she agrees, cool and calm, and then Alistair's gentle hands are dragging her away and up the stairs, and the last thing she sees is Cullen sinking to his knees once more in prayer, though for what or for whom she can't begin to guess.   
  
\---  
  
Magic arcs across the Harrowing chamber, bright and deadly.   
  
The words of the Litany fall from her lips like the rush of a storm, pulling back Irving and the rest of the mages from Uldred's bloody clutches.   
  
A burst of flame. The ring of steel. And then it's over, _it's over,_ and Irving is smiling at her just like he used to when she got a new spell right on the first try.   
  
She falls to her knees sobbing in relief. She throws her arms around the older mage and sobs into the crook of his neck. Irving's arms wrap around her and he whispers soothingly, "Oh, _Sunshine_." It makes her feel like she's six years old again, safe and warm and _home_.   
  
It's over.   
  
But suddenly there are footsteps thundering on the stairs and the door bursts open, revealing a disheveled Cullen.   
  
It all happens so quickly; Zevran reaches for his knives and Alistair steps in front of her and Irving, sword drawn and ready. Tension fills the room as the men stare each other down.   
  
But Irving coughs quietly, catching Cullen's attention, and wordlessly the templar sheathes his sword and stomps back down the stairs. They follow silently until they all file into the entrance hall, and she's surprised when Greagoir looks relieved to see them and brushes Cullen's outburst off.   
  
_He respects Irving,_ she thinks. _He respects a mage._  
  
It's all so surreal. She worries for a moment that she's still in the Fade, but Alistair squeezes her hand, the warm bulk of him beside her grounding her and keeping her calm.   
  
Right. Duty calls.   
  
She marches up to Irving and Greagoir and tells them about Redcliffe, besieged by undead and its arl failing, his son possessed by a demon.   
  
Irving accedes to her request and tells her that the mages will be less than a day behind them, and pledges their aid against the Blight. To her surprise, Greagoir promises the same for the templars.   
  
She nods, satisfied at a job well done, until she catches sight of Cullen in one corner, looking angry and betrayed. He looks up and meets her gaze, and he looks so hostile that she involuntarily takes a step back.   
  
Alistair sees it too, and after a curt farewell he starts to drag her away and out of the Tower.  
  
She turns to look back as they descend the steps.   
  
(She is eight years old; she stands at the steps of the Tower, holding an older mage's hand and waving as Irving departs for the College with the other Senior Enchanters. He sets off a gold spark - like fireworks, like sunbeams - their own secret goodbye before he boards the ferry.)  
  
Irving stands just inside the open door. He looks like he wants to call after her, but after a moment he turns away and shuts the door.   
  
When they reach the shore Solona lets go of Alistair's hand and throws up into the lake. He doesn't say anything, just gently rubs her back and holds her hair out of her face. When her stomach is completely empty he wordlessly offers her his waterskin to rinse with, and when she's a little more composed he takes her into his arms and whispers soothingly as she pours out her heart in shuddering sobs. Even in the safety of his arms, the sound of the wind on the lake and the soft crooing of pigeons strike up painful memories in her, and it's a long while before she quiets.   
  
In the silence, she learns to concentrate on the steady beat of his heart as she presses her ear against his chest, and that, more than anything, makes her feel a little bit better.   
  
\---  
  
Night catches them halfway back to Redcliffe, and they stop to make camp a little way off the road. It’s quiet with only half the party present. Cuddling with her mabari in her tent, Solona absently wonders about Morrigan and Sten and Leliana, left behind in Redcliffe, and wonders if they will live to see the dawn. She shakes that thought away and tries to focus on the feel of Barkspawn's fur beneath her fingers, the sound of Alistair sharpening his sword outside, the easy banter between Wynne and Zevran by the fire.   
  
She falls into a fitful sleep.   
  
Nightmares plague her, but not the usual kind, with darkspawn and the Archdemon and the Blight consuming them all.   
  
No, she dreams of a cold stone tower and a templar's colder eyes. She dreams of Cullen, trapped in a demon's grip, and the demon is wearing her face.   
  
But the worst of all is when she dreams of herself alone in the empty landscape of the Fade, screaming, "Alistair! Alistair!" but the echoes only taunt her as darkness falls and no one comes.   
  
She wakes up in the pitch black of predawn and a scream rises in her throat, but instead of a wordless cry of fear what comes out is "Alistair!"  
  
She hears Barkspawn whine in the darkness, feels his warm flank pressing into her side, and only then does she remember where she is. She presses her face into her hands and tries to take deep, calming breaths.   
  
She jumps and almost cries out again when the flap of her tent is tugged open. She starts to panic until a soft voice calls, "Solona?"  
  
Alistair appears in the gap, his face obviously worried even in the dim light. She says his name softly and he frowns, crawling in beside her as she summons a magelight.   
  
"What's wrong?" he asks. His rough hands gather up her own, and he's so close and warm and _real_ in the little space.   
  
"I--" and suddenly she's flinging herself unashamedly into his arms as his name falls from her lips in a desperate litany.   
  
"Hey, hey," he says, his big hands fumbling around for a place before he settles one around her waist and the other on the back of her head. "What's wrong?"  
  
She sniffs, tears welling up again, and it's pathetic, but he's _here_ and he's _real_ and: "You were gone. I called and called and you were gone."  
  
"Er. Sorry?" he says, confused. "I was just in my tent, you know."  
  
She shakes her head. "In the Fade. At the Tower, and then just now, in my dream. You were gone. You left."  
  
_"No,"_ he says, surprising them both with the force of his conviction. He pauses, embarrassed, before he says again, "No. Never."  
  
Oh.   
  
Her heart, which had started to slow down, speeds back up again. She looks up at him, her eyes wet with tears. "Promise?"  
  
Breathlessly: "Promise." And then, smiling: "Family, remember?"  
  
She laughs softly. "I thought that was for someday?"  
  
"Might as well start early," he says, grinning softly.   
  
"What about Barkspawn?" she asks, settling against his chest.   
  
"Barkspawn too," he says, holding her closer as her mabari presses against them, and together the little family waits for the coming dawn.   
  
\---  
  
The demon in Connor is gone, the undead banished, but the arl is still ill and Solona still cannot sleep easy. She slips out unseen into the night.   
  
Or so she hopes. After the terror of the undead, Redcliffe sleeps easy but not deeply, and Solona tries to be as quiet as she can while crossing the castle courtyard.   
  
It doesn't work, because there's a shuffling sound from somewhere in the stables before a voice calls, "Solona?"  
  
She freezes, caught, before she turns to find Alistair standing sleepy and bleary-eyed at the stable doors.   
  
He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he takes in her appearance, clad in her sleeping-shirt and the thick stockings she wears with her robes, huddled in a thick hooded cloak. Tentatively she steps into the cool shadows of the stables.   
  
"What are you doing here?" she asks softly.   
  
Alistair scoffs and feigns affronted:  "I _sleep_ here; what are _you_ doing here?"  
  
She purses her lips. "Here? In the stables?"  
  
"Mm-hmm," he hums, smiling sleepily at her.   
  
"They _did_ give you a room, didn't they?"  
  
"Well, yes, but it was too soft and comfy and civilized," he jokes. "But this, this is the best room in the house. Fit for a king... 's bastard. Anyway, no place like home, right?" He smiles.   
  
Her face must've fallen a little bit because he immediately follows up with, "Or... not. I'm sorry, that was a bad joke. Actually it wasn't even a joke, but still, it was poorly thought out on my part, which isn't much of a surprise, and please, _please_ don't be mad--"  
  
She isn't, so instead of replying she merely steps closer and wraps her arms around him, halting his blabbering. He hesitates for a moment before he hugs her back and rests his chin atop her head.   
  
Easy as breathing.   
  
"You used to sleep here?" she asks after a moment of comfortable silence.   
  
"Hm? No, actually. I used to sleep in the kennels, but I tried that and I, um, didn't fit."  
  
She laughs into his neck at the mental image of her big, burly knight squeezing himself into a mabari kennel.   
  
"Wasn't so bad," he continues. "But at least the stables have a better view."  
  
"Of what? The horses?" She looks up at him, amused. Laughing, he shakes his head and takes her hand to lead her up to the loft. Together they fall down into a pile of sweet-smelling hay and settle easily into each other's arms.   
  
The roof badly needs thatching, but she doesn't mind the view of the night sky it affords them. She burrows deeper into Alistair's embrace and laughs a little when he freezes, unsure what to do with his hands. He settles on running his fingers through her loose hair, his other hand resting on her waist.   
  
She lets herself get lost in the sensation of his gentle hands in her hair. Occasionally his callouses catch on the strands but she finds she doesn't mind in the least. She hardly notices when his other hand begins running along the hem of her shirt and pauses at the corner, worrying it between his thumb and forefinger.   
  
She hums. "Jumping straight to the steamy bits, are we?"   
  
He freezes, caught, and when she looks up at him she laughs softly at his expression, sheepish and guilty.   
  
"No, I--"  
  
"Alistair," she says, placing her hand on his cheek. "It was a joke."  
  
He blushes. "Yes. A joke. Of course. You're hilarious. Ha ha."  
  
She frowns at his excessive nervousness. "Alistair, what's the matter?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," he says in a rush. "Just, you know, it's kind of awkward when you're almost literally rolling in the hay with the girl you like and she's wearing another man's shirt--"  
  
"Alistair, _what_ are you talking about?"  
  
He stills, looking curiously at her. "The shirt?"  
  
"It's my sleeping-shirt, yes," she says patiently. "I got it from the Tower. What about it?"  
  
"From the Tower," he repeats.    
  
"Yes, the Tower, where I'm from. Alistair, what's the matter with you?"  
  
Wordlessly he rolls her gently off him and lifts the corner of her shirt.   
  
"What--" she says, then freezes. Neat little stitches mark the hem, clear in the moonlight.   
  
C.R.  
  
(He looks away sadly, not meeting her gaze as he presses soft cotton into her hands.)  
  
("In case you need clothes that aren't robes," he whispers.)  
  
And Alistair watches her face and sighs before he says, quietly, "You... didn't know."  
  
She stares at the little letters as if she can't quite comprehend what they mean. And then: "Oh. _Oh."_ She fingers the neat little stitching. "This was his. As in--" She struggles to find the right words as memories bubble up to the surface and clamor for her attention. "I thought it was just..."  
  
"Something he filched from the Tower store room?"  
  
She nods, lost to old memories. "How did _you_ know?" she asks quietly. Wordlessly Alistair lifts up his own shirt, shows her the uneven stitches of his own initials.   
  
"Oh."  
  
"Solona?" he whispers worriedly.   
  
"Is that a templar thing?" she asks absently.   
  
"I-- yes? It was taught to us in training."  
  
This startles her out of her reverie. "You knew him."  
  
A pause. Alistair looks away. "Yes."  
  
"In training?"   
  
"Yes."  
  
"You were friends."  
  
A sigh. "Yes."  
  
"But you--" she stutters. "You drew your sword. You looked so _angry_ \--"  
  
Alistair's eyes snap up to meet hers. "He wanted to _hurt_ you."  
  
There's silence, and then--  
  
_...with the girl you like..._  
  
"Oh. _Oh."_  
  
There's that feeling again, like with the rose, and after Goldanna, and in her tent after the Tower, and somewhere in her mind it clicks into place that this heady rush is what being in love feels like.   
  
"Oh!" She launches herself into his arms, her lips crashing against his as they fall back into the hay. Alistair freezes, unsure, but she presses herself firmly against him and his hands find her waist as she nips at his bottom lip. He groans at the feeling and she uses that moment to push her tongue into his mouth, needy and desperate.  
  
They part breathless and smiling. She settles in his arms, content, until she sees the trepidation in his eyes and she pulls back, worried.   
  
"Alistair?"  
  
"I-- it's just-- are you sure about this?"  
  
"Yes." Of course.   
  
"What about..." he trails off tentatively.   
  
"Cullen?"  
  
He nods nervously, not meeting her gaze. She chuckles softly.   
  
"Oh, Alistair," she says, placing her hand on his cheek. "I'm not going to lie and say I never felt anything for him," she says carefully. "But," and she plows through the rest despite her nervousness because she sees the fear rising in his eyes. "That was different. And that was before. You and me, we're here, we're now. This is real, too."  
  
"But--"   
  
"I love you," she says, a little afraid but also a little relieved to finally give voice to this thing she's been carrying around for months. "Okay?"  
  
"Right," he says, swallowing. "Okay."  
  
She smiles. "Kiss me?"  
  
He grins, almost manic in his joy, and pulls her close, and they stay close until the first rays of dawn start to appear.   
  
\---  
  
Sunlight streams through the roof, bathing them in a warm rush of gold.   
  
Solona blearily rubs the sleep from her eyes and smiles when she sees Alistar still relaxed in slumber. She's about to join him again when she finally registers the position of the sun in the sky.   
  
With a curse, she pushes off from Alistair, waking him up with a loud "Oof!" before rushing down the ladder and into the light of the courtyard. The Circle mages are already packed and ready to go, waiting by the carriages.   
  
"Irving!"  
  
He turns toward the sound of her voice and she runs headlong into his waiting arms, hugging him fiercely and not caring who sees.   
  
"Goodbye," she whispers into his shoulder. The old Enchanter smiles and hugs his former apprentice, no longer a frightened five-year-old, but always, _always_ his little ball of sunshine.   
  
"My Solona, my Sunshine," he whispers. "I'm _so_ _proud_ of you."  
  
When they pull apart there are tears in their eyes, and this time, unlike when she left the Tower for the first time, they're happy tears.   
  
She runs to the castle battlements as the carriages set off, waving goodbye like a little lunatic until the carriage is a tiny speck in the distance. But before it completely disappears into the trees, there's a spark - like fireworks, like sunbeams - bright gold against the morning sky. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Small scene of attempted rape + explicit (consensual!) content at the end of the chapter.

Haven is a miserable place. It's cold and wet and awful. She's never seen snow before; the only memory she has of it is a beautiful ice crystal that Irving had shown her when he was trying to explain to her what it was.   
  
But here in the Frostbacks it's everywhere, blanketing the ground and falling into her hair and clothes and making them sopping wet.   
  
And then there are the cultists, and the drakes, and finally a _dragon_ comes swooping over the mountains. She grits her teeth as she ducks behind a rock to dodge a burst of flame. It's always a bad day when swooping is involved.   
  
Somehow - weary and shivering and a little worse for wear - they manage to make it to the Temple.   
  
And then there are ghosts, and riddles, and, surprisingly, closure.   
  
The specter of Jowan surprises her, dragging out memories she'd have rather kept locked up tight.   
  
(His messy brown hair is the first thing she sees the first morning she wakes in the Tower. “Wakey, wakey, Sunshine!”)  
  
(His face is stormy as he chases her and Neria down the corridors, sparks of static flying from the tips of his hair.)  
  
(The Knight-Commander strides into the Apprentices' quarters looking furious enough to burst. Her heart pounds in guilt and trepidation but it is Jowan who immediately jumps up crying, “Me! It was my fault! Me!”)  
  
And this apparition _isn't_ Jowan; she knows this, but she still holds back tears and shudders in relief when she hears absolution fall from his lips.   
  
And then they're at the urn, stripped bare and humble; and as she gathers up some ashes for Arl Eamon she thinks, _it's almost over._  
  
She sneaks a glance at Alistair and blushes, looking away immediately.   
  
Someday is so close she can almost taste it.   
  
\---  
  
They make the long trek to Orzammar while Eamon recovers from his ordeal and pulls the arling back on its feet.   
  
The vast dwarven city reminds her a little of the Tower, if only because of the lack of sunlight. The tangled mess of politics makes her want to pull her hair out. She thinks, sullenly, that this isn't really her problem, but she needs an army, damn it, and by the Maker she's going to get one.   
  
Which is how the party finds itself wandering the Deep Roads with a fiery-headed dwarf in tow.   
  
She likes Oghren. He's funny when he's not making drunken passes at her, and she thinks it's sweet how he would even dare to enter the Deep Roads in search of his wife, who is, by popular opinion, a complete bitch.   
  
The Deep Roads aren't a kind of tropical paradise by any stretch of the imagination, especially with the darkspawn, and the various crawling _things_ that make their home here, and the Archdemon that comes swooping in at some point.   
  
Yes, swooping is _definitely_ bad.   
  
Even so, the thought of coming down here some thirty years down the road makes her want to throw up, and apparently Alistair is of the same opinion. When they make camp the rest of the party seem to tiptoe around the agitated Wardens, and they, in turn, retreat to the privacy of their tents.   
  
At some point during the night -or day, she can't really tell- Solona wakes up from a nightmare. It isn't anything new, but combined with the chill of the Taint thrumming stronger than ever in her veins, it's too much, and she seeks out Alistair in his tent. She finds him awake when she crawls in and curls up beside him in the little space, his face drawn and ashen.   
  
"Hey," he says in a tone of forced lightness. She only whimpers as she curls closer into his warmth, trying to block out the clicking sounds of darkspawn in the shadows around them. And maybe it's pathetic, but she's so, so afraid, and she knows it's selfish because Alistair's afraid too, even if he won't show it. But she also knows that if she tries to brave this alone she might very well lose her mind.   
  
"I'm so scared," she admits quietly into his chest.  
  
Alistair automatically wraps his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.   
  
"I know," he says quietly. "I am too."  
  
She shudders in his embrace. "I don't want to die."  
  
"We won't," he says quickly. But that's a lie, and they both know it, so he amends: "Not here. Not today."  
  
And maybe they won't die today, but they're Grey Wardens, and they'll die _here_ , won't they? She tells him as much.   
  
"Who knows?" Alistair says, half-joking and half-despairing. "Maybe we'll get lucky and die hunting darkspawn up on the surface, when the Blight is over--"  
  
She whimpers and moves closer, her arms tightening around him.   
  
"Hey," Alistair says, comforting. "Hey, look at me." He tilts her face up and looks into her teary eyes, and there's fear in his own eyes, too, but there's also strength, and a quiet sort of determination, and that stills her heart, just a little. "I'm not going to lie," he says. "We're going to die, and it's probably going to be sooner rather than later. But," he says, his fingers brushing away the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I want you to know that, wherever or whenever death comes, we'll face it together. You won't ever be alone. I promise."  
  
She nods, her heart swelling at his words as she reaches for a reserve of inner strength she didn't know she had.   
  
"And who knows," Alistair continues. "Maybe we'll get really lucky and we can go on a fun adventure before that happens. We can go to the sea - you'll love it, I promise - and I'll teach you to swim and we'll watch a sunset on the beach--"  
  
She nods and closes her eyes, letting his voice wash over her as sleep pulls her under, and this time when she dreams it's a good dream, with roses and sunshine and warm hazel eyes watching lovingly over her.   
  
\---  
  
Arl Eamon's Denerim estate is huge, and there's food and a bathroom and an actual _bed_. It's almost paradise, until she walks into Eamon's study and catches the tail end of a conversation between him and Alistair.   
  
"You want to _what?"_ she all but screeches, looking like a furious little tempest as she stalks up to the arl.   
  
It's a credit to Arl Eamon that he doesn't even so much as flinch as he explains how, exactly, he plans to shove a crown on Alistair's head and feed him to the wolf-pack that they call nobles.   
  
"But he doesn't _want_ to be king!" she protests, horrified.   
  
"That's what I said!" Alistair chimes in, tension in his shoulders and panic in his eyes.   
  
Eamon merely stares evenly at them, and Solona is reminded, suddenly, of how young she is. She has a brief mental image of the time she accidentally set Irving's hat on fire when she was six. It was a very ugly hat, he later agreed, but still.   
  
This feels exactly like that. She's young, she hardly knows anything about the world, and here she is, trying to save it.   
  
And then she realizes with a start that Alistair is just as young as she is, and that for all his courage and strength he's just a boy, really, and they expect him to rule a kingdom?  
  
Maybe he could do it, with a little prodding. Alistair's smarter than he makes himself out to be, but it's obvious to anyone with one good eye that he absolutely doesn't want to be king.   
  
But he _could_ be, couldn't he? That's the gist of what Eamon's saying. Alistair could be king, he could be a _good_ king, and he could live long and safe and maybe even be happy, eventually. The Calling would come for him, in time, but only after he'd lived a good, long life.   
  
He'd be able to go to the beach.   
  
Without her.   
  
Some part of her heart protests at that, argues that it's too big a personal price to pay, but just then Anora's servant interrupts them, and so of course she has to set aside any misgivings for now and save the day once more.   
  
\---  
  
She feels immensely regretful as she and her party set out to rescue the damsel in distress.   
  
She and Alistair had fought; he demanding to know why he was being left behind, and she determined to keep him safe.   
  
"It's too dangerous now," she says, ignoring his scoff. "I swear, Alistair, this is different. If we get caught in Howe's estate there's absolutely no guarantee that Loghain will let both of us go alive."  
  
"So I need to be there with you! Who knows what kind of trap this is?"  
  
"We're Wardens," she says calmly, even as her heart plummets to somewhere around her feet. "We're the _only two_ Wardens left in Ferelden. We can't risk both of us."  
  
"We've done it before!" he retorts, exasperated. "At the Circle, and Haven, and, and, everywhere else--!"  
  
"I know. I don't want to do this either, but Eamon says--"  
  
"To the Void with what Eamon says!" Alistair shouts. "Is that what this is? The prince thing? So suddenly I'm just dead weight because they want to make me king?"  
  
"It's not like that," she says. "But he has a point. If Ferelden needs a king to get the nobles to band together against the Blight--" she cuts herself off at the look of horror in Alistair's eyes.   
  
"You'd-- you'd do that? You'd make me king, you'd _leave_ me even after everything--"  
  
"Alistair--"   
  
But he's already shaking his head, hurt obvious in the set of his shoulders and the look in his eyes.   
  
"Just go," he says, defeated. "Be careful. I hope you don't die."  
  
"Alistair--" she tries desperately, but he merely turns away and stalks back inside.   
  
Later, when Ser Cauthrien and her men surround them, swords drawn and hopelessly outnumbering her party, a little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Alistair whispers, _I told you so._  
  
\---  
  
Solona wakes up in a daze. Rough stone scratches at her back and she wonders where her clothes have gone. She sits up, fighting the wave of nausea that washes over her, and looks around.   
  
This is not good.   
  
Scratch that, this is _awful_ ; she hurts everywhere, and she can hear pained cries from somewhere far off, and the guard is leering at her even as she struggles to cover herself.   
  
She tries a healing spell, but even that is difficult, drained as she is of mana. She considers her options. Perhaps she could trick the guard somehow, get him to open the door--  
  
And then what? She could maybe cast a fire spell, but only just, and who knows how many more guards she would encounter further on? She groans inwardly as she realizes she never made good on asking Alistair to teach her how to fight.   
  
_Alistair_.   
  
She slumps down as she thinks of him and the way they parted. Would he even still care enough to come for her?  
  
Or maybe he and the rest had already given her up for dead; maybe the world was already falling to the darkspawn horde as she sat here wallowing in her misery.   
  
That thought rouses her a bit. She is after all, first and foremost a Warden--  
  
("If Ferelden needs a king to get the nobles to band together against the Blight--")  
  
(Horror. Hurt. Heartbreak. "You'd do that...?")  
  
Maker, she's screwed up. She resolves right then that she's getting out, one way or another, if only so she could tell Alistair what an utter _fool_ she's been--  
  
First things first.   
  
She calls the guard over and tries to act as sultry as possible.   
  
(Oh, _how_ had that pirate woman managed this?)  
  
She feels like an idiot, swaying her hips like a painted whore, but it works, somehow, and the guard unlocks the gate and steps inside the cell.   
  
Her heart pounds as the guard backs her up against the wall. She feels like vomiting, and instinctively she sends out a shock of lightning, earlier than she'd planned and weaker than she'd expected.   
  
"Why you--!" The guard draws his sword, and she tries to draw on what little mana she has and panics when she finds none.   
  
She ducks under the sweep of his sword and out the cell door. The guard follows her and she panics, but there, in the corner, her staff lies propped against the wall, and if she can just reach it--  
  
Abruptly she cries out in pain as the guard yanks at her hair. She can smell the alcohol on his breath and she prays, for Alistair, anyone, _please_ \--  
  
The door opens, and her heart sinks at the prospect of more guards arriving, but instead a barking brown blur launches itself at the guard holding her, and he lets her go with a panicked cry.   
  
Barkspawn growls and snaps at the guard, and then Alistair is there, advancing in a fury and knocking out the guard with a swift punch.   
  
He stands with his back to her, breathing heavily, anger apparent in the way hunches his shoulders. She's never seen him this angry, not even at the Tower when he'd drawn his sword against Cullen with a cold, tranquil fury in his eyes.   
  
"Alistair?" she whispers tentatively, and it's like someone pours a bucket of cold water on him, because he turns abruptly and his eyes widen when he takes in her disheveled state.   
  
"Solona?" he whispers as he falls to his knees beside her. "Oh, oh _Maker_ , are you all right? Are you hurt? Did-- did he--?" he makes vague, despairing gestures with his hands. She blinks, confused, before realization dawns on her and she rushes to reassure him.   
  
"No, no," she says, taking his hands to still his movements. "I-- it's just--" and she can't quite find the words, so instead she flings her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. "Oh, Alistair, I'm _so_ sorry. I was so _stupid_ \--"  
  
"Hey," he interrupts, his hands moving comfortingly on her hair. "It's okay. I mean, yeah, getting yourself imprisoned was a really stupid move, and if you could, um, not do that again, I'd be really, really grateful--"  
  
She sniffs, pulling away to face him. "No, I meant--" and then she pauses and takes in the sight of him, scrutinizing. "Alistair, what are you _wearing?"_ His tunic is pink and purple and absolutely ridiculous, and she vaguely wonders how he even managed to fight his way here in them. He huffs.   
  
" _You're_ one to talk," he retorts. "I mean look at what _you're_ wearing, or, what you're... _not_ wearing. We should go," he says, blushing, not meeting her gaze as he helps her up. "I think your stuff's in this chest here."  
  
He studiously looks away as she dresses herself, and comically jumps in surprise when she tucks her hand into his.   
  
"I'm ready," she says quietly.   
  
"I--" he stutters, still blushing faintly. "Right. Let's go." He readies his sword as he peeks through the door to check if the path is clear. "Stay behind me," he orders her as he moves to exit.   
  
But she pulls on his hand, staying him. "Alistair," she says, and when he looks back at her he’s caught unaware when her lips press briefly against his. "Thank you."  
  
He swallows. "Anytime."  
  
She smiles, her heart full to bursting, and she takes his hand as they exit, ready for whatever comes.   
  
\---  
  
Solona fumes as she slams door to her private room. After she and Alistair had gotten back from Fort Drakon, Eamon and Anora quickly took up arguing again about the succession issue. She'd spent the better part of the day, exhausted as she was, running back and forth from Eamon's study to Anora's room.   
  
She changes into a simple shirt and soft cotton breeches, still muttering angrily, before she flops down on the bed tiredly. She is almost asleep when she hears a knock on her door.   
  
_"What?"_ she growls out. There's silence before a reply comes from the other side, tentative and nervous.   
  
"It's me," Alistair calls. "Can I come in?"  
  
She all but falls out of bed as she rushes to unlock the door. Alistair is there, clad in a simple tunic and breeches, looking flustered and apologetic.   
  
"Sorry, did I wake you? I could, um, come back in the morning, but I wanted to make sure you were alright after--"  
  
She laughs quietly, taking his hand and leading him inside, locking the door behind him.   
  
"It's fine," she reassures him as she sits down on the edge of the bed. "I wanted to talk to you anyway."  
  
"Right," he says, taking a seat next to her and fiddling with his thumbs. "What about?" he prods.   
  
She takes his hands and thanks the Maker when he doesn't pull away. "I'm sorry. For earlier. I don't want you to become king, either."  
  
"I gathered as much when you were shouting at Eamon when we got back," he answers, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles. "Thank you for that. What brought on the change of heart?"  
  
"I never wanted you to become king, really," she admits. "I knew I'd have to leave you, and I hated that. But if it was absolutely necessary to stop the Blight, well. Could you blame me? And, and I thought--" she pauses, searching for words.   
  
Alistair tips her face up when she looks away, his golden eyes as kind as ever. "Thought what?"  
  
"I thought-- I thought it would be better for you. Safer. You wouldn't have to risk your life so much--"  
  
"I think you grossly underestimate how often people want monarchs assassinated," he chuckles softly. "And the Calling would still come, someday."  
  
"Well, yes, but-- until then you'd live a good life. You could grow old -or as old as Wardens could be, I suppose- and you'd grow fat and content and maybe someday you'd even be happy--"  
  
"Without you?" Alistair asks quietly. "Never."  
  
_Oh,_ she thinks. _I could love this man forever._  
  
"I'm sorry!" she cries, tears spilling over as a dam seems to break within her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just-- I thought it would be best. I didn't-- I _don't_ want to lose you. Ever. Oh, Alistair, if you'll have me, I'll stay with you as long as you want me."  
  
His sharp intake of breath is her only indication before he kisses her, his lips crashing onto hers as they fall back onto the bed.   
  
"Always, always," he mumbles between kisses, brushing away the tears on her cheeks. "Thank the Maker, I thought you didn't--"  
  
He leaves that thought unfinished as he focuses instead on kissing her everywhere he can reach. Soon, their frantic kisses grow soft and languid, and Solona thinks that if tomorrow never comes she would never tire of kissing this man in her arms.   
  
Alistair pulls away to press his forehead to hers as they stop to catch their breath. "Thank the Maker you’re alright," he says. "I was so worried when the others came back without you." He kisses her again briefly. "I thought I'd lost you."  
  
"Oh, Alistair," she sighs as she cards her fingers through his hair, smiling at the simple fact that she _could_. He hums at the sensation, his eyes closing contentedly, before he leans down to kiss her again, a wordless kind of desperation in the way his lips move against hers. His hands at her waist are gripping her tightly as the warm weight of him anchors her down to the bed, as if he's afraid that she'll float away if he doesn't hold her down.   
  
She nips at his bottom lip, her tongue snaking out to soothe the bitten flesh, and when he groans the sound sends heat rushing down her spine, pooling low in her belly and in the space between her legs.   
  
He pulls away abruptly, his face red with embarrassment. "Ah, I'm sorry, I didn't--"  
  
But she merely laughs softly as she pulls him closer, her heartbeat quickening when she feels his hardening length brushing her sensitive core.   
  
"It's alright," she reassures him. "It's more than alright. If you want this--" and then she rolls her hips upwards, watching in fascination as Alistair closes his eyes and whimpers.   
  
"Maker _, yes,"_ he says desperately as his lips crash against hers once more, making both of them moan at the feel of their bodies pressed together.   
  
She slides her hands under his shirt and helps him pull it off, immediately moving to slide her hands down his chest and around to his back afterwards. He shudders at the warm press of her hands, his lips moving desperately against hers as he fumbles with the laces keeping the top of her shirt closed.   
  
When he gets them undone he moves to kiss a line along her jaw, then down her neck, and then lower still, pressing kisses to the tops of her breasts. She whimpers, arching her back to press them closer to his face, and both of them shudder at the sensation. Frantically his hands move to pull off her shirt, before his sword-roughened hands move to cup her breasts. She moans wantonly at his touch, her senses heightened to the point where she can feel every callous on his fingers as he kneads the soft flesh. She whimpers when he brushes his thumbs across her tight nipples, and she screams in pleasure when he latches his mouth onto one and sucks, hard.   
  
He pulls away abruptly, trepidation on his features, and she whimpers at the loss of his mouth on her, kissing her, pleasuring her, _loving_ her with all he can give.   
  
"I'm sorry!" he says nervously. "Did I hurt you?"  
  
She shakes her head, desperate to have his mouth on her, anywhere on her. "No, no, it felt _good_. Oh, Alistair, please, _don't stop--"_  
  
His mouth returns to her breasts before she can finish, kissing and licking and sucking, alternating from one stiff peak to another as she cries out in pleasure, her hips bucking up to grind against his.   
  
His hands move to pin her hips to the bed as he presses his face to her chest to muffle a loud groan. "Solona--" he protests weakly, even as she feels him squirming above her, his cock twitching in the confines of his breeches.   
  
"Alistair," she whispers, her hands moving to unlace the front of his pants. "I _want_ you. Please?"  
  
He moans loudly and kisses her again, shrugging out of his breeches and smalls before dragging hers off as well. He pauses briefly when she's bare before him, his golden eyes dark with desire but also with something else, an undercurrent of something warmer and lighter that sets her stomach fluttering even as heat pools in her gut.   
  
"I love you," he says, one hand cupping her cheek as the other aligns his cock with her entrance. She nuzzles his palm as she looks back at him lovingly.   
  
"I love you too," she whispers. "Alistair, my Alistair, I love you, I need you, _please--"_ _  
_  
He groans at her words before he presses the tip of his cock against her slit, coating himself with her own slickness before he presses slowly into her. She's wet enough that he slides in easily, inch by inch, but she hisses at the feeling of being stretched to fullness as she struggles to accommodate his girth.   
  
He stops, not even halfway inside her, peering up at her worriedly. "Solona? Are you alright?"  
  
She nods tightly, breathing heavy and ragged as she feels herself adjusting to his size. "Yes, just-- give me a minute."  
  
Alistair holds himself carefully above her, struggling not to move as he watches her face anxiously. After a while her breathing slows the tiniest bit, and she nods. Alistair moves to press further into her, and this time she sighs in pleasure as he slides in smoothly, slowly filling her until he's sheathed fully in her cunt.   
  
They moan in unison when their hips press together, and from there pleasure blooms in her belly with each thrust. He sets up a slow pace, still afraid to hurt her. She smiles at his gentleness, but this won't do. In this moment she wants him too much to be content with the slow way he moves inside her.   
  
She cants her hips upwards at the same time he slides into her, and he shudders at the heat that erupts across his skin. She grinds against him, pleading with her body, and with a groan he picks up the pace and thrusts into her with wild abandon, lost to the pleasure of their coupling and the tenderness with which she runs her hands through his hair.   
  
After a few more thrusts, he whimpers, desperate. "Solona," he says hoarsely. "Solona, I can't--"  
  
She presses her lips to his, silencing him. "It's alright, Alistair. Just let go."  
  
With a groan and a shudder, he comes inside her, thrusting until the last of his seed is spent and he stills, breathing heavily above her.   
  
"I'm sorry," he chokes out, ashamed. "I'm sorry, I couldn't--"  
  
"Hush, Alistair," she says, placing a peck on his lips, smiling even as he softens inside her.   
  
"But--"  
  
She silences his protests with another kiss, chuckling softly. "If it really bothers you..."  
  
She pushes at his chest lightly, both of them gasping a little as he slips out of her. She takes his hand and leads it to her center, pressing his fingers against her entrance.   
  
Without further prompting, he takes to running a finger along her slit, coating it in her wetness before he slips it inside. She moans at the feel of his calloused finger thrusting into her. He's watching her face closely, paying attention to her reaction, and the way he's so _eager_ to please her stokes her desire higher and higher still.   
  
"Another," she instructs him, and he complies, slipping another finger inside her. He curls his fingers experimentally, and does it again when it elicits a loud moan from her.   
  
He smiles at the sight of her pleasure, and does it again, again, again, and when he brushes against that particular spot inside her she bucks up off the bed, arching into his touch. He cocks his head, curious, before seeking out that spot again and pressing down _hard._ _  
_  
She screams at the impossible heat that rises inside her. "Alistair," she gasps out as his fingers work her mercilessly. "The-- the little nub-- if you see it--"  
  
He does, and sets to work on it with the same determination, rubbing circles around it with his thumb before pressing firmly.   
  
She comes undone with a cry, her fingers tightening on the bedsheets as Alistair continues to stroke her through the pulses that shake her to her core. Only when she collapses back into the mattress, breathless and sated, does he pull away, falling down beside her.   
  
He brushes the hair away from her face and kisses her, soft and sweet. "Better?"  
  
She laughs. "Much," she says, burrowing into his side and sighing when he wraps his arms around her.   
  
"I--" he stutters. "I _am_ sorry, about-- about the--"  
  
She laughs again and nuzzles into his chest, perfectly happy and content in the safe circle of his arms. "Don't worry," she says, smiling. "I'm sure we'll get better with practice."  
  
He buries his face in her hair, laughing quietly. "I like the sound of that."  



	3. Chapter 3

The Landsmeet is a mess.   
  
After all that effort gathering allies, gathering evidence, it still ends, somehow, in a battle, and then a duel, and then Loghain on the floor, dead by her own hand.   
  
And then Eamon _still_ tries to make Alistair king. The _nerve_.   
  
"No," she snaps. "Anora will do just fine, I'm sure."  
  
There are gasps of surprise, from most of the gathered nobles and not the least from Anora herself.   
  
Ugh. She'd better remember who she owes her crown to.   
  
But then Alistair comes up to her, smiling hugely, before he leans down to kiss her, right in the middle of the hall.   
  
There are scandalized cries from the more conservative nobles, interspersed with a chorus of soft _"aww's"_ from the others, led by Leliana, who is almost squealing in delight. Oghren wolf-whistles, and Barkspawn lets out a happy bark, and Zevran actually applauds.   
  
It's all mostly lost on Solona as she rises on her toes to kiss him back, briefly, before pulling away with a smile.   
  
Someday just couldn't come soon enough.   
  
\---  
  
In Redcliffe, she wonders if someday ever will come.   
  
It's one piece of bad news after another. Riordan tells them that the Archdemon and its darkspawn army is in Denerim, and inwardly she groans at the prospect of marching all the way back from where they came.   
  
And _then_ Riordan tells them that one of the three Wardens is going to die, at the very _least_ , and fear pools in her gut as she studies the drawn lines on Alistair's face.   
  
_No, no, no,_ her heart beats out in her chest. _Not him. Not if I can help it._  
  
Alistair turns to her looking like he's thinking the same thing, and she has to look away to hide her guilt.   
  
_Forgive me,_ she thinks. _But I can't let you die._  
  
And just when she thinks there might be a way out - she's already singing praises in her head, singing, _Thank the Maker for Morrigan!_ \- when the other mage drops it on her that the only way to save both Wardens is for Alistair to have sex.   
  
With _Morrigan_.   
  
She cringes on his behalf, but she goes to convince him anyway, clinging to their little dreams of someday.   
  
_We'll go to the beach,_ she thinks as she walks down the hallway to his quarters. _We'll watch a sunset._ __  
  
_Maker have mercy,_ she prays when she reaches his door. _Please don't let him hate me for this._ __  
  
\---  
  
It seems like ages later when a soft knock sounds on her door and Alistair shuffles in without a word, looking wearier than ever.   
  
He climbs into bed with her, hugging her fiercely, and she turns to wrap her arms around him, her hands tracing soothing patterns on his back.   
  
"Did you--?" she asks tentatively, and in reply he only nods once and holds her tighter. She brings one hand around to cup his face, brushing her thumb across his lower lip. "Do you want to--?"  
  
He shakes his head. "Just stay with me," he says tiredly.   
  
She nods. "As long as you want me," she says, pressing closer to him, and he shudders and sighs against her forehead as sleep claims him. She stays awake long into the night, rubbing her hands soothingly along his back, before she too falls into a fitful slumber.   
  
\---  
  
Denerim is in chaos. All around, the acrid stench of smoke and death permeate the air, choking her and making her eyes water.   
  
Still she fights, Alistair in front of her and Leliana and Barkspawn beside her as they cut a path through the endless darkspawn to Fort Drakon. They pass by Riordan's crumpled body on the street, and she can only offer up a quick prayer as they rush past, because there's no time.   
  
They're already exhausted by the time they reach the rooftop. She catches glimpses of familiar faces amidst the tide of screaming darkspawn. Here, Arl Eamon sinks his blade into a genlock; there, Irving freezes several hurlocks in a furious blizzard. Even Greagoir is there, stripping an emissary of its magic before he shield-bashes it in the face.   
  
And there is, of course, the Archdemon, whom she recognizes from her dreams and from the Dead Trenches, splitting the sky with a mighty roar as a flurry of arrows pierce its hide.   
  
_It's now or never,_ she thinks as she rushes forward, snatching a discarded sword on the way. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Alistair moving to intercept her before falling weakly to his knees.   
  
_Hold on_ , she thinks fiercely. _Hold on for me. This will all be over soon._  
  
And it is. There's a roar and a flash of bright light, and her last thought before she loses consciousness is a prayer that Morrigan knew what she was doing.   
  
\---  
  
Solona wakes up groggily in a room flooded with sunshine. Alistair is dozing in a nearby chair, and Barkspawn looks up at her from the foot of the bed, tail wagging furiously as he gives a happy bark.   
  
Alistair startles awake, glancing around the room before his gaze settles on her, sitting up and smiling.   
  
Her body still aches in a thousand places, and her voice is scratchy from disuse, but there's no better feeling in the world than when she takes Alistair's hand and he breaks into a wide, relieved grin.   
  
"So," she asks hoarsely. "Is it someday yet?"  
  
Alistair laughs, loud in blissful, uncomplicated happiness. He kisses her soundly, humming contentedly against her mouth, before he pulls away, grinning.   
  
"You know what?" he says. "I do believe it is."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally intended as a one-shot that got out of hand. Decided to cut it up into chapters because I totally did not expect it to be this long.
> 
> But anyway, Solona finally gets her happy ending after all the shit she goes through! Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it! ^.^


End file.
